


Fierce Powers at Work

by icyshark



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Mud (2013), the Matt/Will is one-sided
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icyshark/pseuds/icyshark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Mud (2013) AU. Will and Matthew are best friends living on the river in rural Louisiana. Early one morning, they come across a stranger marooned on an island in the middle of the Mississippi. Agreeing to help him, they find themselves tangled in a web of lies, criminals, and murder.<br/>(REVAMPED, PLEASE REREAD FROM THE BEGINNING IF YOU'VE BEEN READING SINCE I FIRST POSTED)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. begin

The summer of ’93 was the strangest of his life. Will Graham has died two times; it was once when he was 37 and his brain caught fire, and once before that during the summer of Hannibal. That’s what he called it in his mind, and that’s what it was, really. That was the year everything changed, for him, for Matthew, for everyone, forever.

There wasn’t a day that went by Will didn’t think of the events of that summer. They hung from his shoulders, a shroud, a cape that he could not remove. Every morning when he let his dogs out and saw the sunrise, he thought of skating across the water with Matthew in his dad’s little river boat. The chirping of crickets and screaming of cicadas brought him to a thicket of trees on an island, and sitting between two of the most important people of his life. When he laid his head softly on his pillow at night, he felt strong, sure hands brushing his hair and cradling his head as life slipped away from him. Hannibal’s ghost walked with him everywhere.

He was seventeen, living in rural Rayland, Louisiana, on the river with his father. Being shy and well-read, he didn’t exactly fit in with his peers, from town or the river, and so his only friend was a boy named Matthew Brown. Will never really knew what to think of Matthew. He lived a few minutes up-river from Will and he had a darkness on him. Sometimes when people had dark hearts, it was only Will who could truly see them. This was mostly the case with Matthew. He was quiet, kept to himself, but knew how to be polite and charming if the situation called for it. He was also very capable of violence, a trait he displayed only often enough to remind everyone it was there. Usually manipulative people like that bothered Will, but he knew that Matthew was the most loyal friend he would ever have, and he kept the bullies away from Will. Their relationship, even if it was dangerous, was necessary. Will had his doubts about Matthew, but he worried about himself too. His peers said he was walking with demons, that he saw ghosts, that he had voices in his head telling him what to do. He liked to think that none of it was true. Will just had an active imagination and a cripplingly strong sense of empathy, meaning that the only demons walking with him belonged to everyone else. Or, he hoped so, at least. It was hard to tell what was his and what was everyone else's sometimes.

Will’s father fixed boat motors and was training Will as an apprentice that summer. His mother died of viral infection when he was eight. The doctors said that her brain was swelling and there was nothing to stop it. Will never knew what the phantom illness was; his father never told him directly. He said it was something off the river and that was that. Later, the burning of his brain was all the more traumatic. It was his mother all over again, but this time, it was his own mind that was burning, and it was the people he loved who were forced to watch. Will’s relationship with his father was strained. Delicate. The balance depended heavily on very little communication and mostly leaving each other to each other’s business, unless it was to work on the motors together. He couldn’t say that he loved his father, but they looked out for each other when they needed to, and Mr. Graham shielded Will from a lot. He was grateful.

Matthew’s family was very different. He lived on a boat too, but his parents were dead, so he lived with his uncle, Frederick Chilton. Chilton was a cruel man. He had many jobs, but his favorite by far was torturing Matthew. He rarely physically abused him beyond smacking him around every now and then, but Chilton rooted around in Matthew's mind whenever possible. He'd gaslight him, make him think he'd done things he hadn't, make him do things he didn't really want to do. Chilton harrass him about his looks, his lisp, which was likely a product of Chilton's manipulation, and anything else he thought might hurt Matthew. It was horrible and it was fucked up but Matthew was so close to graduating and having enough money to get out and live on his own, so there was nothing he or Will or anybody could do about it. Matthew would storm into Will's boat in agony, breathing hard and clutching at his chest, begging for Will to help him. Will would put him in his bed and wrap the duvet around him tight, and wait for him to fall asleep before he ran outside and dry-heaved. It was too much, sometimes. Matthew had so much inside that Will didn’t want to feel it.

During school, they didn’t do much working outside of school assignments. Matthew never read for class, said he couldn’t understand it, so the two of them would sit out on Will’s porch and Will would read aloud for him. Conversely, Matthew would help Will to understand his algebra equations. It was nice. Will liked being part of a team, and they both wanted to get out of school and out of Rayland so badly that school was the least stressful aspect of their lives. There were no illusions that either of them would ever go to college, so all they had to do was graduate high school and save enough money to leave. It was a singular, attainable goal that they both shared, and that solidarity got them through a lot.

Summer was when they thrived. Summer was their time, their golden age where they were free to do whatever they wanted, free of the scrutiny of their guardians. Matthew loved when they woke up early and took Will’s little boat out on the river. They didn’t do anything, just cruised. The early morning was their witching hour, when no one else was awake and it was just the two of them and the river. They both needed to work afterwards, but for that hour, they were unbound.

The strangeness and the ugliness of that summer began in that magical early morning realm. Frederick told Matthew about an island in the river where a boat had gotten caught in a tree. He only mentioned it in passing, accidentally, without realizing that Matthew was really listening. But Matthew was always listening, and he rushed to Will's as soon as he could get away to inform him that they needed to take that boat. Will understood his desire to find a place that was all their own.

“We gotta hurry, Matthew,” Will shouted over the little motor, checking his watch. “I can’t be late today. We have fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“I’ll set my timer,” Matthew responded, a small smile on his face. It wasn't really a smile, too pinched and sinister to really appear joyful, but it was something. Maybe if Matthew had somewhere other than Will's to go when he needed to get away from Chilton, he'd get better. Maybe.

Their small boat buffeted against the water, and Will felt a strong sense of peace overwhelm him. There was nothing he liked more than being on the river with his best friend, gazing out across the smooth surface of the water in the morning light. He often dreamed childishly that they could live in those moments forever, free from responsibility, free from pain. Just the river and the morning sun. He closed his eyes and let the breeze run fingers through his hair and brush soft hands across his cheeks, the comforting touch of a mother, soothing him.

Soft, wet sand caught them. The island was large, larger than Will was expecting, probably about a square mile. Certainly a suitable size for the site of a safe place.

Matthew leaped off of the boat and onto the sand, running and without waiting for Will to follow. Will secured the boat and followed Matthew into the thicket of trees, he did not rush. He felt like he had all the time in the world.

 

* * *

Will took so long that Matthew came back to look for him. They met at the tree line.

“Come on, Will," he said in a low whine. 

“I am,” Will responded, going for a weak swing at the back of Matthew’s head. Matthew rolled out of his reach playfully.

“Let’s go,” he said over his shoulder, moving to take a step.

Will grabbed Matthew’s shirt. “Wait!” He cried, pointing sharply at the ground. It was a pit, probably what was once a stream, half-full of dirty, muddy water. “Almost fell in the creek."

“No, Will. Look,” Matthew said quietly, voiced grave. Will looked at the pit more closely now and understood Matthew’s sudden fear; the water writhed with the black bodies of water moccasin snakes. Will could almost feel them, slithering under his skin and through his veins. Matthew knelt down for a closer look and Will grabbed the collar of his shirt to pull him right back up. Matthew shot him a look but was otherwise unfazed by Will's intervention.

“Fucking snakes,” Matthew breathed angrily. “We gotta be careful if we’re gonna keep coming back here.” He squatted and hefted a large rock into the water, scattering the snakes. “Little shits.”

“Come on,” Will said, placing a tentative hand on Matthew’s shoulder. “Let’s just focus on finding the boat.”

The boys carved through the foliage. Somewhere, Matthew had picked up a stick, and was thwacking it against the shrubs at their feet. This outlet of aggression was the kind of thing that made Will a little uneasy; Matthew's arms and back were very muscular, and he was strong. He didn't hit the plants lightly, he tore them down. Better that he destroy plants than himself or others, though, Will thought.

Will stopped so abruptly that Matthew crashed into his back. Matthew shoved him and started to complain, but stopped when he saw what hung from the tree.

It was a boat, as promised, and it was big. Big enough to have a lower deck, at least, judging from the windows on the sides. Will smiled a little. It was perfect.

Matthew made a small noise in the back of his throat and rushed past Will to the tree, starting to climb. Will followed slowly, as usual, but his smile was fading. An uneasy feeling was creeping over him, but he couldn’t figure out why. He wanted to call out for Matthew to be careful, but didn't want to piss him off, so he remained silent and started up the tree.

It truly was a marvel. Despite the unfortunate power of Will’s imagination, he could not find any realistic way that such a large vessel had somehow ended up not only so far inland, but so high in a tree, and with so little damage. Will thought about the flood the year before. Maybe. The boat was missing its motor, but other than that, it looked ready for the river. Matthew sat down on one of the dirty seats above deck and looked across the trees, running his hands along the ruined upholstery reverently. Will stood for a moment at the wheel, imagining how it would feel to take this boat out on the river, how the wind would feel on his skin, how the waves would sound as they parted for him. He opened his eyes, cutting the fantasy short, and crept below deck.

Will’s uneasiness grew from a spark to a roaring flame within seconds. There were boot prints on the walls, piles of fish bones, and assorted nonperishables. A pit opened up in Will’s gut, and he felt his heart drop.

“Matt,” he said, his voice low in warning.

Matt sensed his unease immediately, coming to join him. “What is it?”

“We gotta find another boat,” Will said, almost angry, as if the boat already belonged to them. “Someone’s living in here.”

“What?” Matthew asked, his tone a blend of surprise and anger. He slipped past Will and further into the cabin, inspecting the food. He reached for a can before Will stopped him.

“Don’t touch anything,” He cautioned, pulling Matthew’s hand away. “Whoever lives here can’t know that someone’s been in here.”

Matthew nodded his understanding and moved his attention away from the food to look around the cabin in general. Will turned to the wall and inspected the boot prints, running his hand softly across the dried mud. He stopped at the heel and looked closer. Whoever owned the boots was always walking with God, because it looked like a cross was nailed into his heel. Will looked at it for a moment longer.

He felt a phantom sensation on the back of his neck and whipped his head around, searching through the window. Every instinct he had was screaming that someone was watching them, but after searching the trees for several seconds, he forced himself to stop. There was no one there.

“Let’s get out of here,” Will said darkly, grabbing Matthew’s arm and pulling him out of the boat, not waiting for a response.

“What? Come on,” Matthew half-whined, half-growled, pulling out Will’s grasp. “Please. This was supposed to be our boat.”

The longer they stayed in the boat, the more disruptive Will’s fear grew, but the look on Matthew’s face stopped Will from pushing him around. Matthew had wanted from this boat what Will had; it was supposed to be a safe haven, a place that was just for them, and now here someone was, taking it from them before it was even theirs. The injustice stung.

Will sighed. “I know, Matthew. But if someone is living here, it isn’t our boat, it’s theirs. We should stay away from here.” Will turned and started climbing back down. He was always so sure footed when ascending tree branches, but for some reason, coming back down was about ten times harder. They climbed trees a lot, and Matthew always let Will go first; it allowed Will to pretend he wasn’t so awful at it. Instead of Matthew waiting around for him, they were forced to reach the ground at almost the same time, casting the illusion that their skill levels were equal.

They walked back the way they came. Matthew still had his stick, but now rather than striking the plants, the stick dragged through the dirt at their feet. His sadness hung heavily in the air, and Will almost couldn’t stand to be in it any longer. He longed to be home, loading the truck with his father instead of drowning in his friend's misery. Guilt writhed like water moccasins in his belly.

They made it all the way back to the boat before Matthew whacked Will’s arm with the stick.

“Matthew!” he hissed. “Ow!”

“Will, look,” Matthew said somberly, frozen still on the sand. He slowly raised his stick to point it at a figure on the beach.

It was a man. He was tall, muscular from what Will could see, with deeply tanned skin. He wore a thin white button-up shirt, plastered to his chest from the damp wind rolling off of the water. Will checked his feet: boots.

“You think that’s him?” Matthew whispered, brushing the back of his hand against Will’s. His skin buzzed with excited energy.

Will frowned. “Yes.”

He marched towards the figure on the beach, determined. Matthew trailed behind. The stranger did not look up, even as they stopped not five feet in front of him. They stood in silence for several moments, watching the man fish. Despite the fact that he was fishing with a child's "Transformers" fishing rod, he was doing pretty well; a small pile of fish was to his right on the sand.

"Do you walk with God?" Will asked as he approached. Matthew furrowed his brow and worked at his bottom lip, but walked at Will's side anyway, his loyalty more powerful than his fear.

The sharp man flicked his reptilian eyes at Will, making all of his hair stand on end. The man’s expression was strangely fond, invasive. The small smile tugging at his lips was fleeting, but the teasing of it on his expression made Will yearn with something fierce. He felt suffocated.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your boots," Will pointed. "They've got crosses in the heels, right?"

The stranger shook his head. "Nails. Shaped like crosses."

"Right," Will said, looking out at the river.

"Why?" Matthew asked, squinting like he was staring into the sun.

The man looked almost mischievous. "To ward off evil spirits."

"Who are you?" Will asked, voice shaky. His bones rattled with anxious energy.

“A man.”

Matthew shifted his weight in the sand. In the stifling absence of speech, the screaming of the cicadas and gentle sighing of the river invaded the air. Will could feel the man’s disturbing ease just as clearly as he felt Matthew’s and his own discomfort, Matthew's flavored with curiosity.

“And you are?” The man grinned again quickly, tossing another fish onto the pile at his feet. He had the air of a man being bothered by two small children, too amused to truly be irritated. Were it any other adult, the stranger’s flippancy would have made Will angry, but out on that island, it only made Will scared.

Will answered slowly. “I’m Will. This is Matthew.”

“Where are you from?” Matthew questioned, shifting forward again. The stranger’s eyes narrowed imperceptibly, so quickly Will almost didn’t see it. Matthew’s confidence faltered, and his words stumbled through his lisp. “You, you… I can’t place it, but I, I can tell you aren’t from around here.”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed thickly. “Lithuania.”

Matthew narrowed his eyes. “What’s a guy from Lithuania doin’ down here?”

Darkness fell over the stranger like a shroud, so thick in the air that Will could feel it over his own shoulders, an oppressive cloak that Will sensed this man could not take off. It became startlingly clear that yes, though this man was dangerous, he also carried within him a crippling loneliness, a sadness so deep and profound that Will felt lost in it. He looked at Matthew, shocked that his friend felt nothing of the overwhelming force that was this man’s emotional cloud. Will crumpled, angry that he let himself get so far away from his own mind. It was the sensation of walking into a room and witnessing something private, not meant for you, but feeling paralyzed from looking away. Something evil waited for the stranger at home.

“I’m meeting an old friend,” the stranger replied finally, dragging his eyes off of Will to reel in the line. “I’ve come to ask her for… some assistance.”

"Your friend’s here?” Will responded immediately, once again commanding the stranger’s attention. “In Rayland? Who?”

“A town so small,” the foreign man sighed, fondness in the edges of his eyes. Will marveled at the depth of emotion this man was capable of expressing through only his eyes. “You think you might know her.”

“Yes, I think I will,” Will affirmed, feeling bold.

“Well, then, William,” the stranger began. “would you happen to know a woman by the name of DuMaurier?”

“Bedelia?” Matthew interjected again. Will closed his eyes. “That’s that shut-in lady that lives in the cabin ‘cross the river from you, right Will?” Matthew didn’t look up, now digging a poor wet worm out of the beach with his stick. It was as if he had shut off all social skills on purpose.

Will clenched his jaw, eyes still closed. “Yes.”

The man looked sad. “Ah, that is a shame. I had feared…” He sighed. “What is the extent of her isolation?”

“My boat’s across from her cabin,” Will said quickly, stopping Matthew from embarrassing them further. He chose his words and tone delicately, trying to be sensitive. “I’ve lived there all my life. In the years since she's moved in, I don’t know if I’ve seen her more than three times.” Will cleared his throat and looked at the stranger. “Sir.”

“That is unfortunate, William,” he replied. The repeated use of Will’s full name made him squirm. “Then, my young friend, would you mind delivering a message to Ms. DuMaurier for me?”

Matthew’s watch went off. “Will—“

“What’s the message?” Will interrupted, eyes locked on the stranger.

“Will you please tell her,” the man said, staring right back at Will. “That Hannibal needs her help.”

“Hannibal, is that you?”

 The man looked away. “Yes.”

“Will, seriously,” Matthew said quietly, lisp present in full force. “If you’re late again, I—“

“Alright,” Will said, interrupting him again, still looking at Hannibal. “I’ll tell her.”

Hannibal nodded and set down his fishing rod and rose to face Will, extending one hand. Will took it, thinking it was a handshake, but Hannibal surprised him by gently wrapping both warm hands around Will’s. Will felt hot and terrified. Hannibal’s eyes were that of a snake, a killer. They were the dark red of spilled blood.

His voice was a grave whisper. “Thank you, William. You are doing me a great favor.”

“Uh,” Will managed. His hand felt like it was on fire, but he dared not pull away. “Yeah, sure. It’s no problem.”

Hannibal withdrew fluidly. “Then you’d better get going. It sounds like I have kept you from something rather important.” His eyes flickered to Matthew. “Isn’t that right, Matthew?”

Matthew nodded stiffly, startled into silence. He turned, trying to catch Will’s eyes, and hustled back to the little boat, eager to escape Hannibal. Will followed slowly. His eyes dragged over the sand, but he could feel Hannibal looking at him. Before he could really move, a sure, strong hand gripped Will’s upper arm.

“When will you return?”

Will tried to keep his shallow breaths quiet. “This evening?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble, of course,” Hannibal said almost shyly, releasing Will. “Would you bring me something to eat?”

“It’s no problem. I’ll bring you something.”

Hannibal took a step back. “Thank you.” For the first time, his smile reached his eyes, and Will liked the way it softened his face. It almost made him look human.

The boys pushed off into the river and drove away, Matthew at the rudder and Will perched on the front bench. Will turned and watched the island disappear. Watching Hannibal watching him. He didn’t turn away until the island was out of sight.

* * *

 

“Do you trust that guy?” Matthew shouted over the roar of the motor, lisp audible even over the din. They were almost back to Will's house. Will thought for a long time before answering.

“No,” he said finally, removing his glasses to wipe them on his shirt.

“Then why are we going back?”

“Because I don’t care if he might be dangerous,” Will responded, irrationally irritated by Matthew’s question. Before he asked, Will had actually been wondering the same thing. “I’m not just going to leave him on that island to rot just because he _might_ be dangerous." He hadn't realized it was a lie until he said it out loud.

He wasn't returning to feed this man out of kindness or charity. He was returning to study him. Will knew Hannibal was dangerous. He could feel it. The threat of violence was so oppressive throughout the entire encounter that Will could hardly breathe. As soon as he looked into those deep red eyes, Will could see the death that lingered there. Will would bet anything that Hannibal has killed at least once, and Will was never wrong. Hannibal carried a heavy, thick loneliness with him, a sadness that could not be soothed, and Will could feel that stifling isolation. He also felt the careful, calculated violence that stood beside it.

Will rarely saw this specific brand of rage. The rage of his father was like an old fighting dog; tired, but ready to snap after a lifetime of violence. Frederick’s anger was a field of bear traps that would clamp down indiscriminately at the slightest pressure. Matthew’s anger was Will’s favorite because it was so strange; it prowled around like a jaguar, sly, precise, and deadly, but most of the time it slept. All were powerful in their own ways, but they were mere candles next to Hannibal’s forest fire.

No, that wasn’t right. A forest fire was too wild, too uncontrollable. Hannibal’s fury was like the magma shifting just beneath the crust of the earth, ever present and ready to torch the world, but only in concentrated outbursts when he wanted it to feel his wrath. Will pictured him at the top of a volcano, smiling as the lava poured down the mountainside and swallowed cities whole. He was a beast; cruel, controlled, and calculated, he was sharp like a skinning knife. Will wanted to ensure that he and Matthew were not cut.

Which is why, at eight o’clock that evening, he took the boat out alone to deliver food to the man on the island.


	2. play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes a deal with the Devil.

The light was green as it filtered through the leaves, illuminating Will’s grease-stained hands. Gravel spit loudly at the metal beneath Will’s feet, his father’s old truck rumbling down the dirt road home. The days Will spent apprenticing were long and hot, but it was good work. It felt nice, doing what they did. It was just fixing up old boat motors, but there were all kinds of different people living on the river, and Will liked most of them. He rarely spoke, and thankfully the job didn’t require much talking. His father would ask what needed fixing and then they’d get to work. It was interesting and engaging to work on boat motors. Each one was like a puzzle that needed solving, a test of knowledge and natural instinct that was still simple and repetitive enough to be soothing. It served the dual purpose of distracting Will from his dark thoughts and helping the people in his community. River folk have to stick together, after all.

Even as the day was winding down, it was still over eighty degrees outside, and Will’s shirt was soaked through with sweat. His dad spat at the dirt as he swung open the door and his boots squelched right into the mud.

“Shit,” he muttered quietly. Will lowered himself out of the truck lightly.

They hauled a motor to the little shed out front, waddling with it lifted between them to avoid the mud. It belonged to a woman a couple miles south on the river, Annie Jo. She was elderly, and lived alone with her dog in a broken houseboat shrouded by overgrown trees and bushes. The motor belonged to her son. Will didn’t know him all that well, but from what he saw, Anne’s son was a bad man. Rude. He was tired of taking care of his mother. He resented her for needing help in her old age. He wished that she would just die already. And now his motor craps out on him when he’s checking in? On the weekend? Fuck it, he was going into town until it was fixed. Will hated him. Annie was just a sweet, lonely old woman, and she was wasting away out there on the river, all by herself with not even her own son to love her. Maybe that’s why she had her dog. Will thought of Winston. Dogs were often better company than people.

Will’s dad held out a bill and Will wiped his hands on his pants.

“Five? It’s supposed to be ten.”

“You were late this morning,” Will’s father scratched his nose before looking his son in the eyes. Even with his own father, Will burned under the scrutiny. “I had to load the truck myself. You do half the work, you get half the pay.”

“Yes, sir,” Will replied, breathing a tiny sigh of relief when his father retreated into the boat.

The mud outside was barely wet, making it more like cement than dirt. Will didn’t even bother trying to scrape the gravel from the bottom of his shoes, just toeing them off on the front step and slipping inside. The floor needed to stay clean. His mother liked the floor clean. The rest of the houseboat could be a whirlwind of mess, but she hated anything that cluttered or dirtied the floor. She would lie down on the ground and sing to him when he was little. She would waltz across it with her husband, twirling to the crooners of the golden oldies. She never stopped moving. She was the life running through the veins of their house.

Now it was a ghost, and Will felt like a stranger.

He entered his room, but didn’t close the door. It was way too hot for that. Will peeled his shirt off and threw it at the wall before crashing face first into his mattress. Winston padded into his room, paws clicking at the fake hardwood floor. A wet nose poked Will in the ribs and he flinched away with a small laugh. His father called from the kitchen.

“Will, you want some fish? I’m frying some up.” There was a knock at the door. “Will you get that?”

Will groaned into his pillow. “Yes, sir.”

Halfway to the door, Will remembered that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Should he be wearing a shirt? Will wasn’t really one to be shy, unless it was a pretty girl, and what pretty girl would be at his house at this hour? Or any hour, for that matter?

Matthew’s sly face peered at Will through the screen door. Will smiled, trying not to let his worry show. Matthew rarely showed up unannounced unless something was wrong. Will’s chest was tight.

“Hey, Will. You guys mind if I join you for dinner?” He was lisping.

Will’s father appeared behind him. “Of course not, son. Come on in.”

Matthew brushed past Will and their eyes met, a silent understanding passing between them and settling in the room like thin fog. Will’s father clapped Matthew on the shoulder and led him into the kitchen to sit down. Winston followed, wagging his tail so hard the entire back half of his body wiggled too.

There were two things Will could honestly say that he loved about his father: the first was the gravity of love his father felt towards his mother, and the second was the way he treated Matthew.

The understanding between Mr. Graham and Matthew was different from the understanding that he and Will shared. Will was never told explicitly, but he knew that his father had been abused when he was a child. He could feel it in the way he recognized Matthew. They had a strange kind of solidarity, something Will could never truly understand. Mr. Graham never asked him questions, never did anything outside of offering Matthew asylum and making him feel welcome. The local police were incompetent and Will knew that Mr. Graham had done his fair share of time in the foster care system. Even if they somehow managed to get Matthew to report his abuse and get real, solid evidence, there was no guarantee that Matthew would be safe without them. If Matthew were taken away from Chilton, he’d be taken away from the Grahams, too. All they could offer was love.

The three of them mostly spent supper in silence, but it was comfortable. In those moments, Will saw Matthew more like a brother than just his friend. Rarely did he feel like his father regarded him as anything more than a roommate, but every now and then, they felt like a real family. Matthew was family, too. And if he was frightening at times, if Will was afraid of what he was capable of, it didn't matter right then. They were safe in Will's boat.

When the boys cleared the table, Will wrapped up the leftover fish and swiped a few cans from the pantry, shoving them into his backpack. Matthew watched him silently from the sink. Will tried not to feel the eyes on him as he went to his room to slip on a shirt.

Matthew and Winston followed him onto the back porch and down the little dock to the boat.

“You really taking that stuff to him?”

Will stuffed the bag under his seat in the boat. “Yes.”

Matthew nodded. Will wanted to leave, to hurry before the sun set, but the scene felt unfinished. He waited for Matthew to speak.

“I don’t want to come with you.”

“I know. It’s okay.”

“You better come back, you idiot.”

Will made himself smile a little bit, and punched Matthew's arm.

“I will.”

The little boat puttered and Will was coasting away. Matthew patted Winston's head and waved a tiny wave, watching Will take off. The dying light reflected off the water, lighting Will up like fire.

 

Hannibal wasn’t on the beach when the little boat hit the sand. Will dragged the boat onto shore and turned to face the trees, feeling like Theseus at the mouth of the Labyrinth, like Dante, staring into the Inferno. He had no string, no guide to help him when he would be lost inside. He strode quickly into the foliage.

Will crept carefully across the tree trunk above the snakepit, headed towards the boat. When he arrived, Hannibal wasn’t there either. That same prickle, like a finger being dragged against skin, crossed over the hair on the back of Will’s neck again, and his eyes scanned the trees frantically. He felt watched. He felt hunted.

A branch snapped and Will whirled around to see Hannibal standing behind him, motionless.

“I try to never sleep in the same place twice,” he said smoothly, plucking a leaf from a tree and rolling it between his fingers. He flicked it away approached Will casually, walking with the confidence of a man who knew how others perceived him and reveled in it. A man with power.

“I brought you some food and water,” Will said, shedding his bag and crouching to open it. He didn’t want to look at Hannibal.

“May I?” Hannibal asked, lowering himself across from Will. Will nodded, and Hannibal took the bag, retrieving its contents and lining them in a row on the ground next to them. Three bottles of water and six cans. It wasn’t much, but Will knew that Hannibal could fish. He flushed when he noticed a can of pumpkin pie filling; apparently, he hadn’t been paying much attention when he was grabbing stuff to bring.

Hannibal pulled out the foil containing the fish. “This is…?”

“Fish,” Will replied. He looked into Hannibal’s eyes for as long as he could bear. “I know you’ve probably been eating a lot of fish lately, but my dad fried it up. It’s good.”

Hannibal smiled his slow smile. “Thank you, William.”

“Will,” Will corrected. “Just Will. Please.”

Hannibal nodded. “Will, then. Would you care to join me for dinner?”

Every rational thought in his mind was screaming at him to leave, to get away from this man and this island and never look back. He was suddenly, violently aware of how potentially dangerous the situation was. All alone on an abandoned island with a strange older man? As the sun was about to set? It was a recipe for an episode of CSI, but Will couldn’t help the pull in his chest drawing him to stay. He was curious.

“Maybe for a minute.”

Will loaded the bag, leaving the fish with Hannibal, and held up his hands when Hannibal tried to carry the backpack instead. Hannibal bowed his head slightly, a ‘thank you’, and they walked side by side to the boat tree. Hannibal let Will climb up first, and Will felt the ghostly hand of Hannibal’s eyes on the back of his neck, only now, he knew that the man was behind him. He couldn’t decide which was more frightening. Hannibal’s warm hand touched Will’s back as he stumbled into the boat, steadying him. It was simultaneously threatening and comforting, and Will tried to slow the beating of his heart. He was afraid Hannibal would hear it.

The sat on the dirty seats above deck, mirroring each other. Will watched Hannibal delicately peel back the foil and close his eyes reverently, inhaling deeply.

“Lovely.”

He tore apart the flesh of the fish, still warm because of the foil, and placed in his mouth. It was a ritual-like movement. Hannibal closed his eyes and savored.

“Your father is a skilled cook.”

“Thank you,” Will said tightly.

They sat in silence until Hannibal finished the fish. He did not look at Will, seemingly distracted by his own thoughts, so Will took the opportunity to study him. His hair was shaggy and dirty, and Will could tell that it irritated him. Will could see the meticulous nature with which he presented himself to others. The shirt, the jeans, the boots: all of it was a lie, a persona designed to conceal his true identity. It was very smart. To someone in Rayland, he might look like a local, but Will saw it all. His posture was too good, his eyes too old, for him not to be formally educated. The gracefulness with which he moved was foreign to the river folk, too relaxed to pass for someone who spent their days doing arduous physical labor. Even the way he ate suggested that he was a man accustomed to luxury. Hannibal was a mystery.

When he ate the last bite, Hannibal folded the foil up neatly and tucked it into the back pocket of his jeans. He regarded his hands briefly before wrinkling his nose and wiping them on his jeans. The action was repugnant to him. He looked up at Will and crossed his legs, draping an arm over the back of his seat.

“I appreciate all of your help, Will. You have been a lifeline for me, and I cannot thank you enough.”

Will was suspicious. “You’re welcome.”

“I would hate to ask for more,” Hannibal said, clearing his throat and staring into the distance. Will wanted to laugh.

“But you’re going to.”

“I’m afraid I am.”

Will was silent, waiting for his request and hoping it was not horrible.

“You have been very gracious, but I cannot rely on your generosity forever, nor can I rely on your pantry.” Hannibal’s eyes were playful for only a moment. “But so long as I am marooned here on this island, I am helpless. You’re an intelligent young man, Will, so I will not do you the discourtesy of my dishonesty. If I asked you to ferry me to shore, I would be endangering your life, and I will not ask that of you.”

Will closed his eyes and sighed. Great. What was he, a fugitive? What else could he be? Clearly, he was no bum. Will tilted his head back to rest on the boat, face to the sky. Hannibal continued.

“I propose and alternative.”

Will opened his eyes. “I’m listening.”

“The boat.”

Will sat up and looked at the man across from him. “This boat?”

Hannibal nodded.

Will was incredulous. “It has no motor and, in case you haven’t noticed, it’s in a tree.”

Hannibal did not smile, but his expression took on the invasive fondness Will had felt that morning. “I have a small list of supplies, but you might need help retrieving them. If you and your young friend could bring them to me, we would be able to get this boat into the river.”

“What’s in it for us?” Will asked, crossing his arms. Hannibal nodded like he was expecting the question.

“Not much, I’m afraid. My current circumstances leave me with little to offer.”

“Why are you here?” Will asked the question like he was biting something. “What are you running from?”

It was a stupid question. Will knew it before he even opened his mouth. Darkness pooled into Hannibal’s eyes and Will could see the cogs of his brain ticking. Hannibal was very seriously considering murdering Will, and Will knew it. He was weighing the pros and cons of letting Will live. The scales were overwhelmingly unbalanced in favor of Will's death. If Hannibal killed him, he could take his boat and escape, no fuss. No one would find Will’s body, not out here. He’d just be another missing boy, lost to the hungry mouth of the river.

A glimmer of the fondness ran over his expression and Will saw the decision change. It felt strange to be completely at another human's mercy. It was like being looked at by God, and Hannibal certainly looked the part. He reminded Will of a marble statue, carved sharp and beautiful, a stone Adonis. He was testing him.

“I think you’ve done something bad, maybe lots of things. I can’t tell for sure, but I know you’re capable of doing them again,” Will continued. His plan was intricate. He was trying to baffle Hannibal with his apparent disregard for his own life and simultaneously convince him of his worth. “I told Matt that it was fine, that we should give you the benefit of the doubt, but the longer I sit here on this boat across from you, the more I see how wrong I was. I see _you_.”

Hannibal scanned Will’s body, sizing him up. It would be easy, incredibly easy to kill him. Objectively, Will wondered why he hadn’t done it already, but if his plan was working he wasn't going to complain.

“It’s a dangerous world we live in, isn’t it?” Hannibal said finally, cool and calm, as always.

“Yes,” Will breathed. “It is.”

Will thought about his next words very carefully. He thought about the disgusting feeling that roiled inside him at the sight of Chilton, about how his very presence made Will nauseous. He thought about all the times Matthew had slept over and Will felt him crying in his sleep next to him. He thought about how good Chilton’s life insurance was. He thought about how hard Mr. Graham would fight to keep Matthew out of the hands of the government, and away from the other kids in a foster home. He thought about how many times he had fantasized about murdering Frederick Chilton. Will looked right through Hannibal.

“A dangerous world filled with dangerous men.”

Hannibal narrowed his eyes.

“The most dangerous kind of man,” Will said slowly, angrily, “is a man that preys on the vulnerable because he knows he won’t be caught, a man that tortures and torments others for his own enjoyment.”

“And what do you plan to do to those men?” Hannibal asked clinically, uncrossed his legs in favor of leaning forward and tenting his elbows on his knees. Will was almost relieved at this question. It was repugnant, but it felt refreshing to be able to talk to someone perceptive enough that he didn't need to put on training wheels for their conversation. It felt good not to have to explain himself. Hannibal understood him.

“I don’t plan to do anything,” Will said breathlessly. “But you do.”

Hannibal drew his lips into a smile agonizingly slowly, and Will knew that he had won. He felt a whirl of emotion: disgust, fear, shame. Power.

“That’s your price, then?”

Will nodded.

Hannibal leaned back into the seat again, returning his arm to where it rested so casually before and smiled, smiled, smiled. His eyes met Will’s.

“Then I suppose we have a deal. You help me, and I will help you.”

“Deal.”

Hannibal tried to hide his smile. “And what will you tell Matthew?”

Will smiled grimly. “What is there to tell?”

It was absurd, grotesque even, the situation Will found himself in. He’d agreed to help Hannibal escape, presumably from the law, in exchange for the murder of Frederick Chilton, and here the two of them were, smiling at each other like excited children.

The smiles fell away. Hannibal leaned into Will, a massive breach of personal space, to retrieve the backpack at Will’s side. It was a loud reminder: _Deceive or betray me, and I will kill you._

Hannibal looked to the sky as he unloaded the bag once again. “The sun is nearly gone. Better get home before conditions are dangerous.”

Will barked a laugh. Too late.

They descended the tree, Hannibal first. It was so stupid, so ridiculously petty in the wake of the exchange that just took place, but Will didn’t want to look foolish by being scared to climb down the tree. It was dark and the branches were unfamiliar to him. He shouldn’t have rushed. It was stupid.

They’d hardly descended much at all when Will slipped. He didn’t scream, just made a small noise of surprise as he fell. Hannibal lunged and caught him, nearly falling himself before catching them both on a thick branch. He was strong and fast. Will’s fear was renewed.

“Are you alright?” Hannibal breathed, closing his hand tightly around the branch suspending them and swung his legs to steady them. Hannibal’s arm was hard like a steel pole, wrapped strong around Will’s waist, pressing their chests together. The heat of Hannibal’s body felt burning hot, scorching through Will until nothing was left. Will clung to his shirt out of necessity.

“I, yeah, no,” he stammered, scrambling to find a foothold. “I think my pant leg is stuck.”

Hannibal turned and took hold of Will’s leg, ripping him away from the broken branch that had grabbed him. A large gash was oozing on his calf. “Will, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m sorry,” Will said, squirming out of Hannibal’s grasp now that he had control of both his legs, shaky arms fumbling at the trunk to find his own support.

“There’s no need to apologize. Let’s continue.”

Hannibal moved down the trunk a respectable distance, but his hand remained planted between Will’s shoulder blades until his feet touched the ground. Half of Will was grateful that Hannibal was not shy about touching him in his rescue, and the other half wishes he would have just let him fall. His injuries would have been worse than a scratch on the leg, but Will couldn’t help feeling like Hannibal sapped more and more power away from him the more they touched.

Sensing his discomfort, Hannibal removed his hand immediately, pulling it behind him and into the grasp of the other. They walked together back to the beach. Only the smallest sliver of light peeked over the horizon.

“Will you make it back in time?” Hannibal asked amiably.

“No, but the boat’s got a light.”

"Is your leg alright?" Hannibal asked peering at Will's ripped jeans. "Would you mind if I had a look at it?"

"Uh, no thanks," Will said, taking a step back. "We have a first aid kit on the boat."

They stood there for a second before Will needed to move, achingly uncomfortable. He threw the empty backpack into the boat and turned to face Hannibal, hardening his resolve.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, which means I don’t have work. If you want some supplies, tomorrow is the best time for me to get them. What’s most important?”

“Right now, first priority is rope, corrugated metal, and a saw,” Hannibal listed the items impersonally. “Can you remember that?”

Will smiled to himself, laughing at his own private joke. All he did was remember.

“I think so.”

Hannibal nodded. Will felt the same sensation he felt on the dock with Matthew; he had the strong desire to leave, but he knew they weren’t finished yet. There was more to do.

“You have my deepest gratitude,” Hannibal said, eyes on the river. “I hardly know what to say."

 _You’re manipulating me_ , Will screamed in his head, eyes drilling through Hannibal’s skull. It was this moment that solidified the consequences of Will’s actions in his mind, the moment that would fundamentally change him forever: the moment he realized that whatever fucked up game Hannibal was playing, Will was playing too. They faced each other as equals, each with a death sentence to hang over each other’s head, each ready to fight at any moment. All this turbulence and yet the surface of the water was still.

“You don’t need to say anything,” Will assured him. He stepped a foot into the boat, fully intending to leave, but stopped. “I have one last question.”

“I will try my best to answer.”

“If Ms. DuMaurier… If she doesn’t want to talk to me, or if I scare her, is there anyone else that could help you?” _Is there anyone else who knows, who can carry this burden with me?_

Hannibal was silent for what felt like a long time, clenching his jaw every few seconds like he was trying very hard to make a decision.

“There is a woman,” he said finally, looking at his boots in the sand before looking at Will. Will focused on his hairline. “I know that she’s sharp enough to have followed me here by now, but I don’t want you to reach out to her just yet. If we go about this the wrong way, things will get very messy for us both very quickly.”

 _We_.  _Us_. Will nodded. “So what do you want me to do?”

“I need you to watch her. See what she’s doing, who she’s talking to, where she’s going.”

Will’s brows drew together. “Who is this woman to you?”

“It’s very complicated,” Hannibal replied. “I would consider her my friend, but I doubt the feelings are returned yet.”

“Yet?”

Smile. “I can be very persuasive.”

Will fought hard not to patronize him. “I believe you. So who is she?”

“Her name is Clarice Starling, and she is an agent with the FBI.” Hannibal smiled a small, sad smile at the dirt. Will felt a spark of indignant anger in his chest.

“An FBI agent? How could she possibly help you?”

“That’s what makes the situation so delicate, Will,” Hannibal said, tone edging on irritated. “That’s why I only want you to observe her for now.”

With a sigh, Will asked, “Okay, so where is she?”

Hannibal thought. “Rayland is small. There are only a few hotels in town, but I would assume they’d be staked out in one on or near the highway.”

Will shrugged and kicked the boat into the water. “Makes sense. I’ll let you know what I find tomorrow.”

Hannibal’s voice was soft, like he was saying a prayer. “Thank you.”

Will did not respond.

Hannibal was assuming that an FBI agent had followed him to Rayland and had then suggested multiple agents were with her, which meant that Will could only assume that Hannibal had done something very, very bad. He ripped the cord and sped back to the boat, trying to outrun the evil spirits that Hannibal tried so desperately to avoid. He couldn’t ward them off, though. He was one, and maybe Will was too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long. Life gets in the way and depression drowns creativity. I'd love to hear your feedback, and thank you for reading. PS, I made some minor edits to the first chapter, so please look over it again so you don't miss anything.  
> PPS, "Hi 'Just Will', I'm dad."


	3. phase one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will makes contact with Bedelia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! A few things:  
> Please tell me your thoughts on the opening part of this chapter! I sort of did something like this in the first chapter and I wanted to do it again, but I'll take it out if it's not working for you guys.  
> Also, I am now in college! Which means updates will be even slower (sorry). I'm trying my best and I love this fic so I'm going to try and prioritize you guys!  
> Thanks for reading!

There were so many things that Will didn’t know about, things he had no clue even happened until Hannibal wrote him from the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. When he was in college, Will looked up documents Hannibal had written during his time as a psychiatrist. He was articulate, insightful, but clinical. When Will opened the first letter from Hannibal, he expected to find writing like that: candid but impersonal. Accepting the gravity of what Hannibal felt for him was terrifying, so before the letters, Will convinced himself it was one-sided. Hannibal had forever altered the course of his life and changed who he was as a man, and Will did not do the same for Hannibal. This was true, until the letters.

It was just one, at first. Very polite. Hannibal asked him how he was doing, asked about his father, and talked a little about life in the hospital. There was nothing shocking or unexpected in this first letter, but receiving it at all was highly disorienting. Will had a series of panic attacks when he came across it sorting through the mail, and stared for hours until he finally sliced the envelope open. And if part of him was disappointed at the contents, it didn’t have to be for long, because the letters kept coming. The more he wrote to him, the more Hannibal shared with Will. He talked about his childhood, about his sister and his aunt, about his life as a psychiatrist in Baltimore. He wrote to him about Florence, Italy and world history and literature. Will couldn’t read them if he wasn’t drinking whiskey at the same time; it was just too much to handle. If he had to call it anything, he would call it romantic. Hannibal’s words flowed together, eloquent and lovely, like nothing Will had ever read before. Every single word was so thoroughly soaked with Hannibal’s essence that Will could almost feel him whispering in his ear while he read, breath tickling his neck and raking shivers down his spine. Maybe he could have kept them if they continued that way.

But then he started to talk about the summer of ‘93. He talked the things he did in private, the things he did without Will knowing. He wrote in explicit detail how he killed and disposed of Garret Jacob Hobbs. He wrote about following Will through the trees on the island, delighted by his fear. And he wrote about Bedelia.

“She worried about you very much, Will,” he wrote. “After I was shot, I swam to a bank just at the mouth of the river, and that is where she found me. Her first words to me were about you. ‘That boy thinks you died in this river. You need to let him.’ She never wanted me to speak to you again. She is just like you and I, Will. The very soul of a man is bare for her to see, and she saw how I felt about you. How I continue to feel. She knew I loved you and thought it would destroy you. I hope that it does not. The world is a much better place with you in it, Will.”

Will remembers that night with crystal clarity. He sat in his favorite chair and stared at the letter, stone still. He ran his eyes over it again and again, trying to see the letters moving, trying to force them into some other configuration. He was as still as the grave, and the dogs knew to stay away. Animals always know when a storm is coming, and that night was no exception. After prolonged minutes of silence, a horrible sound formed in the back of his throat. His right hand held the letter delicately, but his left clenched so hard his whiskey glass shattered in its grip, dripping alcohol and blood onto the carpet.

His left hand took a month or two to heal. After that letter, Hannibal stopped. Will didn’t know why. Maybe they stopped letting him write, or maybe he was discouraged by Will’s lack of response. Will couldn’t think of things logically. He was anxious, paranoid every time he looked at his ripped up hand that Hannibal knew about his outburst and had stopped writing just to fuck with him. Even if that wasn’t the reason he stopped writing, it worked. Will couldn’t sleep at night. As soon as it got dark, Hannibal found him, his oppressive presence almost smothering Will in his bed. He loves me, Will would chant to himself, over and over. He repeated it because the repetition of half of the truth was better than looking at the full picture. Will didn’t want to think about what he felt for Hannibal. It had been twenty two years, and it was still too soon. He wasn’t ready to face Hannibal. He wasn’t ready to face himself.

* * *

 

“The reeds are too tall for me to get close,” Matthew said as they approached Bedelia’s dock. He was right; the reeds were overgrown and the dock was rotting from disuse. “You’re gonna have to jump.”

“Well,” Will said with a sigh, reaching as far as he could to grab the dock and tie up the boat. “Let’s hope nothing breaks.”

Their plan for the day went as follows: First, they were going to Bedelia DuMaurier’s house to ask about helping Hannibal. This was the part of the plan that had Will the most nervous. He had no idea how much Bedelia knew about Hannibal or how she would react to the news that he was in Rayland, but if Will wanted to keep his deal with Hannibal, he knew he had to ask. If she agreed to help, Will was to report back to Hannibal when they visited him later that evening and ask what he needed from her. If she did not, Will and Matthew were going to drive the fuck away and go find this Clarice woman instead.

That involved driving the boat over to Mr. Stammets’ house. He had his scrapyard, so Matthew and Will were going to pick through and see if they could find anything on Hannibal’s list. Eldon Stammets had a son who died two years before, leaving Mr. Stammets with a moped he would never use and probably never give away, so sometimes he let Will and Matthew use it to drive into town. He'd never voice it, but Will knew Matthew reminded Stammets of his son. Hopefully they'd be in and out relatively quickly. After collecting whatever list items they could in the yard, they were going to hop on the moped. This was Phase 2 of their plan.

The third and final phase of the plan was strapping the cooler full of fish to the back of the bike and driving over to the hotels in town. Once they got there it would be easy to figure out where the FBI were staying, and then the boys would investigate under the guise of selling the fish. Matthew was actually the one who came up with the idea, and it was the perfect cover. They sold fish at the hotels all the time, so the managers wouldn’t question it, and what reason did two sixteen year old boys have to snoop around in the FBI’s business? To them, they were just two poor river kids trying to make some money. And if they happened to actually sell some fish on their recon mission, even better. Will had no idea where he would find Clarice or if she would even be there, but it was worth going and gathering information regardless. The FBI knew things about Hannibal that Will didn’t, and he needed more answers.

But first they needed Bedelia, so Will leaped onto her dock and prayed for no splinters. He rolled away unscathed and looked back at Matthew, who shrugged.

“I’ll be back. Be ready to go,” Will said, turning away. Walking to Bedelia’s front porch was like climbing through a jungle. In the few years she’d lived there, she’d completely let the yard go, and the foliage surrounding her tiny home swallowed it. The paint on the outside was probably pink once but had since been sun-bleached to a sickly pale orange. Black stains dripped from the windows, making the whole house weep. Will hesitated to step onto the porch at the sight of it, its wood splintered and sagging like the dock, but decided there was no point in waiting around. He hardly knocked before the door swung open.

The woman leaning against the door frame was not at all what Will expected. Maybe it was rude to assume that she would be ugly just because she was a shut-in, but either way, she certainly was not. Bedelia had the refined and beautiful features of an Old Hollywood starlet and the shrewd, sly eyes of a cat, dressed somewhat scandalously in only a thin satin robe. Her hands were becoming thin and wrinkled and her eyes had the very fine beginnings of crow’s feet, but she couldn’t have been older than thirty five. Will didn’t really take much notice of the women in town, but none of them looked like this. Bedelia was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen in his life.

“Can I help you, young man?” Her voice was low and silky, so sultry it made Will’s eyelids flutter.

“I, um,” He swallowed nervously. “May I come in, ma’am?”

Bedelia smiled softly and rolled inside, gesturing for Will to enter. As soon as he stepped through the door, Bedelia padded away, leaving him standing alone in her kitchen, so he did the only thing he could think to do and shut the door, toed off his shoes, and stood there, waiting for her to come back. She was only gone a short moment, and when she returned, her blonde hair was swept up into a loose bun. She looked tired.

“Have a seat please,” she said softly, gesturing to one of the mismatched chairs at her kitchen table. Will took it gratefully, preferring sitting and being terrified over standing and being terrified. “Now, why are you in my kitchen?”

“My name is Will Graham-”

“Hello, Will,” Bedelia interrupted him coolly, rising and moving to the counter. “You’re the boy who lives across the river from me, aren’t you? Coffee?”

“Yes, ma’am. No thank you, ma’am.”

Bedelia turned her back to Will and poured ground beans into a French press, sighing. “I’m Bedelia DuMaurier, but I suspect you already know that.”

Will suddenly felt guilty. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bedelia worked the French press for a minute in silence, reaching into a high cabinet for a Las Vegas souvenir mug. Lazily, she leaned into the counter and flicked her feline eyes at him. “What do you want?”

“I don’t want anything,” Will said quickly, shifting in his seat. “Well, I don’t want anything. I’ve come here as a favor to someone else.”

Bedelia slowed to a stop. “Someone else?” she asked over her shoulder.

Will’s heart was pumping so furiously in his chest he feared it might burst. He chose his words as carefully as he could. “A friend of yours, he said. Hannibal?”

Bedelia fell so quickly Will almost didn’t make it to her in time. The mug shattered on the floor, but Will caught Bedelia before she hurt herself. It was in crisis situations like that one that Will really impressed himself. Sure, after he caught her he shook so hard he nearly dropped her anyway, but he was out of his seat faster than a bullet when she started to pitch sideways.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Will asked, breathless. Bedelia did not respond. “Here, let’s sit you up.”

He lifted her back into her chair and inspected her. Her pretty face was expressionless and now framed by her golden hair, giving her the look of the tragic subject of a Renaissance painting, and she seemed unresponsive. Not knowing what else to do, Will sat back down in his own chair and waited. It felt like staring at a ghost. Will felt stinging at his eyes as he looked at her.

“Coffee,” she croaked, lifting her arm only to limply rest it on the table. Will rose and searched for a mug from the same cabinet, grabbing yet another souvenir, this time from Florence. Bedelia didn’t ask for sugar or cream, so Will just poured the coffee and brought it to her black. She muttered a tiny thank you when he set it in her hand, but she did not drink it, instead reaching out for Will with her other hand. Will held it, unnerved by the physical contact but bound by his shame to comfort Bedelia.

She looked at the mug and laughed morbidly. “He loves Florence,” she said in a small voice, glancing at him as she finally took a sip.

Will’s stomach was filled with dread. “Miss DuMaurier, if you’d like me to leave, I can-”

“You’ll go when I say you can go,” she said, voice clipped in a way that reminded Will of Hannibal. She heard it too, he realized. She borrowed it from him because she knew how it manipulated people. Will felt the exact moment when Bedelia realized what she had done, and that Will had seen her do it.

She cleared her throat and retracted her hand. “You’ve spoken to Hannibal?”

“Yes, ma’am.” “And,” her voice wavered.

“He’s here in Rayland?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Bedelia took a quick sip of her coffee and set it down with precision. She tried to look Will in the eye, but his gaze trailed away.

“Will, I want you to listen to me. Has Hannibal asked you to help him?”

Will swallowed. “Yes.”

“Has he made some kind of deal with you to ensure your loyalty?”

Will hesitated.

“Will,” Bedelia warned.

“Yes.”

Bedelia’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Has he told you what he’s done? Has he shown you himself?”

Silence.

“Yes,” Will whispered back, trembling.

Bedelia’s eyes searched his face for what felt like a long time, stare intense and overwhelming. Will thought she might have been a therapist or psychiatrist before becoming a shut-in, because he knew that look. She was analyzing him, trying to see why Will would continue to help Hannibal even when he knew what a monster he was. She was trying to understand, and she was failing. She cleared her throat again.

“Will,” she said, sighing. “Judging from what I have observed, my warning will fall on deaf ears, but I feel compelled to give it anyway.” Her eyes grew dark. “You stay away from that man. You do not know him and you have no idea what he is capable of. Whatever he has promised you isn’t worth sacrificing your life for. I want you to get out. Get out and go report him to the police. Please,” she begged, voice cracking. “Please, report him. If he finds me-”

“What did he do to you?” Will interrupted.

Bedelia didn’t even blink before barking, “Get out of my house.”

Will didn’t blink before rushing for the door.

* * *

 

Will tore through the jungle of Bedelia’s front yard like a bat out of Hell, whacking the grass with his arms angrily. Matt perked up at his approach, and just in time, because Will leaped into the boat with no warning.

“Fuck!” Matthew shouted as water splashed his pant legs. “What are you doing?”

“You need to drive now,” Will growled, gripping the edge of the boat so tight he lost feeling in his fingers. Thankfully, Matthew stayed quiet and did what he was told. Will hated being mean to him, but he needed to get away from that woman’s house as soon as physically possible. If the reception that awaited them with this Clarice person was anything like what happened in Bedelia’s home, Will was about ready to abandon the whole thing.

“Will?” Matt asked finally as they approached Stammets’ dock. “What happened?”

“Let’s just look for stuff on the list, okay?” Matthew nodded in silence.

Phase One completed.


	4. phase 2 and 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Matthew build and burn some bridges.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY ALL! I'm excited to be back and happy I've had time to update this fic, because I love it so very much. This chapter was supposed to be two, but I don't have THAT much time, and I just want to update as soon as possible. Hope you enjoy!

Silence hung heavily in the air around Will and Matthew, floating downriver towards Stammets’ dock. The river was still compared to the roaring tide inside of Will, and the surface of the water was shrouded in a thin layer of fog that made him feel like they were floating through a graveyard. Phantom fingers trailed down his neck and he shivered deeply. The ghost of Hannibal had felt oppressive since they sped away from Bedelia’s house. Will felt his darkness inside him, and it watched while Bedelia’s sadness and frenzied fear fought and rattled around in his ribcage. His heart broke for her. Everyone on that river was hiding from something. Will felt lots of ghosts when he went to work with his father, felt the trauma that so often accompanies poverty, but Bedelia’s was different. It was personal. He felt a connection to her that was more intimate. Her pain felt like his fault, and the sensation was something he didn’t encounter often.

What was worse is that he couldn't figure out the sensation's genesis. Had he empathized too strongly with Hannibal? Or was he feeling guilty because he knew he was capable of empathizing with someone like that at all? He hated it.

Matthew slowed the boat and Will leaped onto the dock, turning to help Matthew with the cooler full of fish. Having Matthew around was like having a guard dog: he was silent and strong, unafraid to bite anyone that dared to fuck with Will.

It was, at first, a delicate arrangement. Matthew moved to Rayland when he and Will were in middle school. Right away, Will saw the true darkness that Matthew mostly hid from everyone else. Matthew knew that Will knew what he truly was, but the two boys had never spoken to each other. For a while, they watched each other from afar, each of them caught in a tense stalemate, waiting for the other to do something.

It finally happened the April of their freshman year.

Matthew caught Will when he was rounding the corner of their school building and slammed him into the brick wall behind them, hidden from any prying eyes.

“What?” Will asked plainly, if a little out of breath.

Matthew didn’t respond. It seemed that, while he had planned the interaction this far, he hadn’t prepared for Will to be so calm after being attacked. He hadn’t expected Will to treat him like there was nothing wrong with him.

The two of them stared at each other, then. Will pushed past his discomfort and watched while Matthew's eyes scanned over Will's face, examining him. After a while, Matthew released Will from the forearm that was pressing into his collarbone and stood back sheepishly, hands in his pockets.

“You wanna be friends?”

Their relationship grew from there. Will knew Matthew, truly saw him like no one else could or ever would, and Matthew revered him for it. It killed Will to think of it sometimes. Essentially, he'd watched Matthew fall in love with him. It was like some fucked-up version of captor bonding. Matthew only idolized and protected Will because Will empathized with him and didn't abuse him like everyone else he'd ever had in his life. But Will didn't deserve Matthew's reverence, and he knew it. Sure, he treated Matthew like a human being, but he was also always afraid of what Matthew was capable of. Matthew wanted to hurt people, to kill them, and he had entrusted Will with that truth about himself. Will had to live with the knowledge that his best friend might kill him one day.

Matthew, on the other hand, was always certain Will would tell someone that something was wrong with him. He’d slip up, get in fights with guys in town or kill an animal and ruin the carcass, and be filled with such dread that Will could smell it on him. Matthew didn’t even have to tell him he’d done something bad, because Will just knew. Any day now, Matthew feared he'd come home after decompressing at Will's to find the police waiting for him, a smug smile twisting his uncle's face because he'd been right all along. That was Matthew at his weakest.

But Will didn’t want to hurt Matthew, and, at the time, he thought that he could control him. He would use their situation to his advantage, and when Matthew truly became dangerous, then he would do something. He couldn't afford to lose him yet. Will was just too vulnerable on his own, and frankly he'd grown accustomed to using Matthew for more than just protection. Everyone would pay for that mistake.

In this particular situation, Stammets was meek and pathetic; he was no threat to Will, but it was nice to not have to face that man’s crippling loneliness by himself. He could draw from Matthew’s disdain for Stammets and cling to that instead. It was a little cruel, but it was strong, and Will was tired. He’d rather be Matthew right now.

They wound their way through the junkyard, climbing over rotting driftwood and busted up old cars. Stammets really had grown quite a collection over the years, his hoarding only exacerbated by the death of his son. He build himself a labyrinth of garbage and hid from the world. Will felt guilty that they were only coming to talk to Stammets to take from him, and he knew Eldon would appreciate the company regardless. Even worse.

As they approached the door, Will let the pendulum swing and felt himself slip into Matthew’s skin. He had never fully gotten used to seeing himself through somebody else’s eyes, at least not until he saw himself through Hannibal’s, so a part of him twinged when Matthew glanced at him.

* * *

 

_Will was doing that thing again, where his eyes get all glassy and weird and he can’t talk. Of course. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, especially since they were about to talk to somebody, but still. Why did Matthew always have to do it?_

_Not that it was always a chore. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t love the chance to see his effect on people. Stammets was particularly fun to play with. Matthew would bring out just a few traits, vague enough to seem natural, that Stammets’ son had. He’d smile so hard his eyes crinkled and stand pigeon-toed, maybe rub his head in two quick brushes like Randall used to do. God, Eldon was so deliciously pathetic, and it was so easy to get him to do what he wanted. Matthew was willing to bet Stammets would give them anything they asked for out of that scrapyard and he’d give to them, no questions asked. He and Will set the fish down and Matthew brushed his hands over his face._

_He knocked twice, and Stammets opened the door._

_God, he was disgusting. His skin was sallow and sagging, the death of his son aging him prematurely. Matthew wanted to sneer. What a sorry, dumpy, unremarkable old man._

_“Hello there, Eldon,” Matthew drawled, a smile spreading naturally across his face. Stammets gave a look so tragic that Matthew was surprised a whimper didn’t come with it._

_“Boys, hello,” he said, fumbling his glasses onto his face with nervous hands. “What brings you by?”_

_His fingers were coated with soil, so he must have just got in from his mushroom garden. Why the fuck anyone would want to grow mushrooms was beyond Matthew, but he supposed he’d let a broken man have his hobbies, as pointless and pathetic as they may be._

_Matthew softened his expression with false fondness. “Well, we haven’t been by in a while and we were jus’ wondering if we could use the moped to head into town, try and sell some fish.”_

_“Oh,” Stammets said, nodding so hard his entire body moved. “Oh, oh, of course boys. Y’all can just take it, you don’t have to ask each time.”_

_“Oh, I know, Eldon,” Matthew said, rolling his neck and leaning with one hand on the door frame. “But why not say hello? Say,” he said, as if he suddenly thought of it. “You need any help around here? Will and I were talking about it a day or so ago, and we were thinking of asking if you wanted help cleaning up that old scrapyard.” Stammets glanced at Will, but Will’s eyes were firmly trained on the back of Matthew’s left boot. He looked back at Matthew._

_“Well, sure, boys, but I-I...” he stammered, flustered. “I wouldn’t have nothing to pay you with.”_

_Matthew scoffed affectionately. “That’s no problem at all, Eldon. We ain’t asking for money, we’re asking because we want to help.”_

_Stammets considered him for a moment before vigorously nodding again. “Alright. Tell you what, I can’t abide not paying you boys, so if you find anything out there that you can use, feel free to take it.”_

_“Awh, Eldon,” Matthew started to protest, but Stammets interrupted him._

_“Now, now, I won’t take no for an answer,” he said, putting his hands on his doughy hips and sighing. “Not like I’m using any of the stuff.”_

_Matthew smiled warmly, and this time he really felt like smiling. Fuck, playing people never got any less fun. The damn fool just gave him exactly what he wanted and Matthew didn’t even have to ask for it. As much as he enjoyed sparking fear through physical intimidation, manipulating people with words was just as good, and sometimes even better. A flicker of Chilton’s face flashed through his mind, and his facade faltered._ Will forced himself back into his own mind.

* * *

 

“Thank you, Eldon,” Will said softly, placing a gentle hand on Matthew’s forearm to both comfort him and remind him not to hurt Stammets. They still needed him.

“No,” Stammets interjected with a drooping smile, "thank you boys. It’s nice to know I’ve got folks looking out for me, and folks to look out for, you know?” It was the most private, emotional thing Will had ever heard Stammets say, and both he and Matt were stunned in discomfort. Will counted on Matthew to bring them back.

“Of course,” Matthew said, brushing a quick hand through his hair twice. Will winced. “And if there’s anything, I mean anything, that you ever need Eldon, you just give me or Will a holler and we’ll do our best to help.”

Stammets sighed and smiled, eyes shining. He suppressed it with some struggle, and Will breathed a sigh of relief. There were very few times when Will could handle the tears of a grown man, and now certainly wasn't one of them.

“You’re good boys, the both of you.”

Just then, a shitty orange truck rattled down Stammets’ dirt driveway. Will narrowed his eyes; it was too humid for much dust, but the smell of damp dirt was overpowering. He didn’t recognize the vehicle. Stammets leaned past Matthew to see who it was, then waved. A man Will had never seen before hopped out of the cab, but something about him seemed familiar.

“Garrett Jacob, what brings you by?” Stammets said, unusually cheerful. The man scratched his nose and his morose expression broke into a strained smile for a moment.

“The truck’s been handling a little strange,” he said with a thin, nasally voice. “Thought I’d come by and ask if you’ll take a look at it.”

Stammets hadn’t been a mechanic professionally for some years, but most of Rayland, especially the river folks, trusted him more than the other two mechanics in town. They still paid him and all that, despite his protests, whether it be money or some other favor.

“’Scuse me, son,” Stammets said, brushing past Matthew to meet Garrett Jacob in the drive. Matthew turned to Will at the word “son” and wiggled his eyebrows. Will didn’t acknowledge him and instead turned away, following Stammets down his creaking front steps.

“You boys are welcome to use the moped,” Stammets said over his shoulder, pausing to give Garrett Jacob a firm handshake. “I’ll just be working on Mr. Hobbs’ truck.”

Will thought for a moment that the man's familiarness might be because his appearance was so unremarkable: white, thin, average height, probably around middle-age, and dressed in working man’s clothes. But the closer he got, the clearer it became. The blue eyes, the ruddy, pinkish cheeks, and his round but slim face were all features of a girl from town that Will recognized from school, Abigail Hobbs. The man standing in the drive must be her father.

“Thank you, Eldon,” Matthew called after him, waving. “You gonna help me with this or what?” He said, stooping to grab a handle of the cooler and eyeing Will expectantly.

Will sighed, shut his eyes briefly, then turned around and stalked back up the stairs of Stammets’ porch, grabbing the cooler and marching back down. He couldn’t help being angry; he was angry with Matthew for toying with Stammets beyond what was necessary, but he was also mad at himself for not stopping him. Sometimes he felt like such a cowardly shit head.

Stammets’ garage was bursting with things. He filled the garage before having to start the scrapyard. The only clear space was for the hoist and a small niche for the moped. They fished some bungee cords out of one of the bags hanging from the seat and strapped the cooler on the bike rack. The cooler was far too big for it to ever be attached in a safe way, but it probably wouldn’t fall off, so it was good enough. Matthew took the handles and Will slipped onto the seat behind him.

Sometimes Will drove, but he preferred it when Matthew did. For one, the act of driving the moped made him anxious, and the fact that Matthew always placed two firm hands around Will’s waist did not help. Will gripped the sides of the seat tight and Matthew sped off down the road. Phase 2 completed, Will thought to himself.

 

* * *

 

Will thought about Clarice from time to time. It was impossible not to; he thought of her every time he looked at Hannibal. He wondered how she was doing, if Hannibal haunted her in the same way he haunted Will. Many times he thought about reaching out to her in some way, writing her a letter or calling her, just to talk. She quit the FBI years before Will started working, so Will never had the chance to work with her. He wondered what it would have been like if he had.

He liked Clarice. She was better than he was, and in many ways, he thought she was better for Hannibal. She would never be with Hannibal, not in the way he once wanted to be with her, but she was good in a way that Will was not. Where Will mostly saw the ugly, Clarice saw the good in people. For Clarice, where there was life, there was potential. She believed in justice because she loved people and wanted to protect them. She was a good influence on Hannibal, and Will firmly believed that if she’d asked him to stop, he would have.

Hannibal loved Clarice, but Will didn’t think for a moment to be jealous of her. The world was better with her in it.

 

* * *

 

“Which motel should we check first?” Matthew shouted above the motor as he and Will approached town. Will narrowed his eyes, scanning both sides of the small highway that brought travelers through town.

“Let’s check Gus’,” Will replied. “It’s bigger and nicer, and it’s right near the gas station. They’d want to make sure they catch him if he tries to skip town by car.”

Matthew nodded and veered left, using no turn signal of course, and pulled into Gus’ parking lot.

Gus was a man of about 60, and he used to be a firefighter. Now he owned “Gus’ River Reststop”. It wasn’t anywhere near the river, of course, but if that’s what it took to keep tourists here, then Will had to respect it. A man’s got to make money somehow, which is why Gus let them sell fish there from time to time. The parking lot was nearly overflowing with FBI vehicles, so apparently the search for Clarice was nearly over. Matthew parked the moped on the curb and helped Will untangle to cooler from the rack. Gus would let them sell their fish no problem, but it was just courteous to ask, so Will went into the lobby while Matthew sulked outside.

Inside the lobby, Gus sat behind a counter shielded with glass, smoking a cigar with his nose deep in a Zane Grey novel. Several people, presumably FBI agents, were milling around, drinking the free coffee set out on a little card table. There were three agents in FBI jackets, two men and one woman, and another man in a suit. The man in the suit, attire aside, gave off a presence of authority. He was probably important, like head-of-the-department important. Will walked to the front desk slowly, loitering around the brochure kiosk.

The man in the suit sighed angrily. “The only reason we’re here is because of Starling’s hunch,” he said. “If she’s wrong...”

“She’s not,” the woman said, tossing her black hair. “And if we’re going to catch Hannibal, we need to trust her. She knows him better than any of us.”

“We’re the ones who analyzed the bodies,” one of the other men said, the agent next to him nodding. “We know him too.”

Will’s head was spinning. It all suddenly became very, very real. Hannibal was a wanted criminal, a real killer.

The woman shook her head. “Not like Clarice, you don’t.”

The blond man snorted. "You're right, Bev. I'm not in love with him."

“Cut the bullshit, Price,” the man in the suit barked, and the man snapped his mouth shut, ducking his head. “The highway patrols have been stopping people for a week now and nobody’s seen anything. I feel like we’re chasing a ghost.”

Will locked eyes with the female agent and looked away quickly. So much for being discreet.

“We’ll talk about this later. Get out of here,” the man said with a small wave of his arm. The agents scattered. He downed the rest of his coffee and crushed the cup in his hand, looking at Will until he marched through the door.

Will let out a huge breath and closed his eyes. Hopefully they wouldn’t suspect anything. He didn’t look suspicious, just poor. They’d probably just write him off as some poor, bored river kid intrigued by the presence of the FBI in his little shithole of a town. It was terrible but it was far easier.

“That Will Graham?” Gus said, peering over the top of his book. Will gave a tiny smile and a nod.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well I’ll be,” Gus said, shaking his head and standing to greet Will. He swung open the door separating the desk from the lobby and grasped Will’s hand in a firm handshake. “Been a while since you stopped by, son. Selling more fish?”

“We were hoping to, yes,” Will said, retracting his hand as soon as possible. “If that’s alright.”

Gus nodded. “Course. Just stay out of trouble. ‘Parently there’s some kinda criminal around here that all them FBI is looking for, so try staying out of their business.”

“Yes sir, of course,” Will said, nodding coolly.

“Well, alright,” Gus said, pulling up his pants and patting his stomach absentmindedly. “I’ll let you to it, then. Good luck.”

“Thank you sir,” Will said, backing up and ducking back outside quickly. Matthew jolted from his seat on the cooler as soon as he saw Will.

“Did you see them guys in the FBI jackets?”

“Yeah,” Will nodded. “They were talking about Hannibal in the lobby.”

“Really?” Matthew asked, eyebrows about as high as his hairline. “What did they say?”

“Well, Clarice is definitely here,” Will said, taking off his glasses and wiping them on his shirt. “Hannibal was right; she’s the one who led them here. They know each other pretty well, apparently.”

Matthew shoved his hands in his pocket and scanned the doors of the motel. “Thinks she’s in?”

“I don’t know,” Will said. “Let’s just sell these fish, okay?”

They started with the ground floor, assuming most of the agents would be down there for ease of exit in case they needed to get out quickly, but there were only a few FBI personnel in their rooms, and they were all men. Typical, Will thought. When they checked the second floor, there were two randoms and nobody else until the last room they checked.

When Matthew knocked, the door opened slightly and a woman peered at them through the crack.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was quiet and gentle, with a hint of a southern accent, though she was obviously trying to cover it. Her eyes were big and blue, but her other features were mostly obscured by shadow.

Matthew opened his mouth, but Will interrupted him. Something about this woman made Will think she wouldn’t fall for Matthew’s charm like everyone else. If she could see Hannibal, surely she’d be able to see Matthew.

“Yes, hello ma’am,” Will started. He sucked in a huge breath. “We were just selling fish. Would you like to buy any?”

The door opened a bit more, and Will could finally see her face. Her skin was smooth and very pale, and her features were soft but striking. Pretty, reddish hair framed her face. She regarded them, eyes flicking from the cooler to Will’s clothes and finally to his face. She knew they were poor, and as her expression softened, Will guessed that she was probably poor too, once.

She sighed. “Alright, boys, I’ll have some. Come on in,” she says, stepping aside. “I won’t make you stand out in the heat.”

The motel room had that stuffy smell all Gus’ rooms, but a light fragrance was layered over top. A small suitcase was open on the bed, its contents still folded neatly inside. Will wondered how long they’d been there. “Let me just get my wallet,” she said, brushing her hair behind her ear and walking over to the purse on her desk. An FBI jacket was hung over the back of the chair.

“You with the FBI?” Will asked casually. The woman paused in her search through her bag for a moment, then continued.

“Yes.”

“What are you doing down here?” Will continued, squatting by the cooler and cracking the lid open. Matthew stood silently, eyes trained on the woman. He didn’t trust her.

She returned with a wallet in hand and looked at Will sternly. “You boys better not go snooping around. This is very dangerous business.”

“You’re looking for somebody, aren't you?” Matthew said curtly, arms crossed over his chest.

“Matthew,” Will warned, but Matthew ignored him.

“That’s what the FBI does, isn’t it? You track down criminals and stuff?”

“That’s part of the job,” she says, placing her hands on her hips. “But like I said, you boys best leave this alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter, right?” Matthew asked absently, scratching his head and looking around the room. “I seen his poster outside the lobby.”

The woman's expression flipped like a switch from sympathy to stone. She started to speak, but Will interrupted.

“Are you Clarice Starling?” Will asked quietly, making eye contact with the woman. He could almost feel her heart rate elevate. He figured if Matthew was just going to dive in, why shouldn’t he? If Hannibal thought he could trust this woman, Will had to trust his judgment. Otherwise, what the hell were they doing here?

“How did you know that?” Clarice asked haltingly, lowering her hands. She searched Will’s eyes, cogs ticking. She took a deep breath.

Matthew, without turning, shut the door with his foot, and Clarice immediately became alert. She wasn’t wearing her gun, which she probably should have been. Will could tell she felt vulnerable without it, saw her hand twitch for where her weapon would hang if she had on her belt. He wiped his hands on his pants and stood up.

“Stand back,” she ordered him. Will held up his hands.

“We won’t hurt you, and I’m sorry if Matthew made you think we would,” he said, shooting a disapproving look at Matthew. Matthew shrugged.

“What do you want?” She asked, voice hard. “Clearly, you’re not just selling fish.”

“My name is Will, and you’re right,” Will conceded, lowering his hands to his sides. “We’re here at the request of a mutual friend.”

Clarice’s face grew paler than it already was. “Are you implying that you have made contact with Dr. Hannibal Lecter?” She asked quietly.

“Yeah, we’ve seen him,” Matthew said casually, taking a step further into the room. Clarice stepped backwards immediately, distancing herself. “Will has a couple times. We agreed to help him out.”

Clarice was baffled by this. "'Help him out?' This man is extremely dangerous, son. Is he forcing you into anything?”

“Not really,” Will replied, kicking the air. “We have something of a deal arranged.”

Clarice sighed quickly, clearly disturbed by their nonchalance. Her face looked angry but it was a defense mechanism. She was scared. Her fear colored her voice as she struggled to sound soothing. "I have to report you, but if you tell me where he is, I can make sure they won’t charge you with anything.”

“He said you might help him too, if we asked you,” Will said, meeting Clarice’s eyes once more. “He called you his friend.”

Clarice looked hurt by that. Will thought of the blond FBI agent's comment about Clarice being in love with Hannibal and  wondered what their real history was.

“He’s a killer,” she said with some struggle. “As long as he’s free, people’s lives are in danger. Can you understand that?”

“Yes.” Will said solemnly.

They all stood there, silent and motionless, for quite some time.

Clarice broke the silence. “Go home, Will.” She met his eyes, and he allowed her to. She trusted him more than she trusted Matthew, Will realized. Maybe it was like Bedelia. Maybe she saw herself in Will.

Matthew shifted his weight. “I assume you’re not helping us then?”

“Leave this room right now or I will report you to my superiors,” Clarice snapped. She stared at them as Will replaced the lid of the cooler and Matthew dragged it out of the room. Will started to close the door behind him, but turned around.

“Clarice?”

“What?” she said, crossing her arms. The move was less defiant and more vulnerable, like she was hugging herself rather than standing her ground.

“I think he misses you.”

Clarice said nothing and did not look at Will, her face stone-still. Just as he closed the door, a tear slipped down her cheek.

They hauled the cooler downstairs, still half full of fish.

“Now what?” Matthew said, squinting at the sun and wiping his forehead.

“We go back to the scrapyard and poke around, I guess,” Will replied, shrugging. “If Bedelia and Clarice both won’t help us, guess we better do it ourselves.”

“She must really care about him if she didn’t report us, huh?” Matthew said suddenly, and Will looked at him surprise. Matthew paid Will’s reaction no attention, which was expected. Will hadn’t heard anything from Matthew before that sounded the slightest bit empathetic. There was no doubt he didn’t fully understand the meaning of what he was saying, but for him to recognize affection as a valid reason for doing something was promising. Will was so distracted it took three tries for someone across the parking lot to get his attention.

“Hey, Will!” a voice called out. When Will turned to look, he could hardly believe his eyes.

Alana Bloom.


End file.
